One
Judge Varela had presided over four thousand three hundred cases in twenty-two years.
He knew this because his secretary, Dolores, had calculated it on the day of his twentieth anniversary at the court and written it on a card with a blue pen and left it on his desk. Four thousand three hundred. He had looked at it for a moment and then put it in the top drawer, where he kept the things he didn’t know exactly what to do with.
In twenty-two years he had developed what his ex-wife called, not without admiration, the marble face. The ability to listen to anything — anything — without his expression revealing the inner work. It was, he had once explained to a younger judge, not coldness but discipline. The courtroom needed to be a place where truth could be spoken without the judge’s expression directing it. A witness who saw sympathy responded differently from a witness who saw skepticism. The marble face was a service to justice.
He had held it through four thousand three hundred cases.
He held it for exactly four minutes and seventeen seconds of case four thousand three hundred and one.
The case was a guardianship.
This too was part of the work — not just the criminal cases people imagined when they thought of courtrooms, but these: the cases that arrived from the cracks between institutions, from the spaces no system had been designed to fill. A family the state needed to place into some category. Two children who had lost both parents within six months, the father in February and the mother in August, and the court had to determine what happened now.
